


In the Bar of The Headless Woman

by Shmiggles



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Memorials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:43:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shmiggles/pseuds/Shmiggles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once a year, on the same day, a very mysterious crowd gathers in the bar of The Headless Woman. The barman tries to find out who they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Bar of The Headless Woman

Mitch Williams stood behind the bar of The Headless Woman, wiping glasses. Wednesday night, predictably, was always a quiet night, especially for a pub strategically situated in the middle of nowhere.

A few locals sat around the bar, quietly sipping drinks and talking. A pair of Australian tourists sat at a table, a map spread between them.

The door opened, and in came a black-haired man with his redheaded wife and three children. Mitch looked at his digital watch; indeed it was the second of May.

They sat down at a table in a corner, and waited. They didn’t order drinks, and Mitch didn’t offer them any. This ritual had occurred every year for the past two years, and the thirteen before according to the previous landlord.

A few minutes later, a redheaded man, his brunette wife and their two children entered. The woman was grumbling to her husband, but she stopped a few seconds after they closed the door. They joined the other family, and the two families nodded to each other in greeting, before sitting in silence.

The rest of the group came in dribs and drabs; many of them had red hair, but some didn’t; one boy’s hair was blue! Eventually the last group arrived. The first man went to the bar and ordered sufficient glass for everybody, a bottle of port and a bottle of grape juice. Mitch sold whole bottles to no other customer, but he knew that there was something special about this group.

For the first time, Mitch noticed that the black-haired man had a scar on his forehead; a scar that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. He briefly wondered what could cause such an injury.

The scarred man returned to the table, port was poured for all the adults, and grape juice for the children. Then the ritual started.

‘To Morfin Gaunt,’ he said, his companions followed suit, and they all drank to the man with the peculiar name.

‘Tom Riddle Senior,’ he said, and they drank again. ‘Edward Riddle. Lavinia Riddle. Myrtle McWilliams.’

The pub quickly became nearly silent as everyone listened to the scarred man. No one knew the people whose names to which his companions drank, but they remained respectfully quiet nonetheless.

Eventually the glasses were refilled, and then the bottles were empty. The scarred man stood, watched by all, and approached the bar. Having bought more port and grape juice, he returned to the table, and the ritual continued.

‘Edgar Bones. Felicity Bones. Mark Bones. William Bones. Sarah Bones. Thomas Bones.’

And then it happened. ‘Fabian Prewett.’ The old woman with greying red hair burst into tears. Her husband put an arm around her, and after a minute, she calmed down. They all drank to Fabian’s memory.

Then, it happened again. ‘Gideon Prewett.’ Mitch was suddenly overcome by curiosity; he really wanted to know who these people were. He wrote the names ‘Prewett Fabian and Gideon’ on a paper napkin, put it in his pocket, and resolved to look them up on Google.

The names continued, until the scarred man seemed to stumble. ‘James Potter,’ he eventually said. ‘Lily Potter,’ followed.

Mitch concluded that these Potters must be the scarred man’s parents; he added them to the list.

He said two more names, ‘Frank Longbottom; Alice Longbottom,’ which earned a few sniffles from a dark-haired man, and then they stopped. They all refilled their glasses.

Mitch knew what came now; now came the series of names that drew the real tears. If only he knew what the pause represented. To Mitch’s other customers, it signalled an intermission of whispered speculation that ceased abruptly when the next name was called.

‘Bertha Jorkins.’ They all drank, but no other response came forth.

‘Frank Bryce.’ No response to this either.

‘Bartemius Crouch.’ This name was uttered carefully, and drunk to grudgingly. Mitch added this name to his list; he wanted to know the story behind his unpopularity.

There was a longer pause before the next name. ‘Cedric Diggory.’ This name was drunk to heartily and solemnly simultaneously. Another name to be looked up.

The names started to become obscure to those drinking to them, until finally: ‘Sirius Black.’ Everyone at the table sniffled at this loss.

And then the ones well-known to this group came thick and fast; Amelia Bones (related to all the Boneses in the first group perhaps?), Emmeline Vance, and Albus Dumbledore, who drew tears from all present.

Mitch added his name, but he had to guess the spelling.

The next notable name was that of Ted Tonks, who elicited a stream of tears from an old woman sitting next to the blue-haired boy.

Ted Tonks was added to the list.

Dirk Cresswell was a relative unknown, and then the strangest name of all: Gornuk. No surname; it had an inhuman quality to it.

The names rolled on, until there was another pause, shorter than the first. The names after it were named in alphabetical order; they seemed to have all died at the same time. Colin Creevey earned a few sniffles from a young man, Remus and Nymphadora Lupin drew tears from the blue-haired boy and the old woman next to him, and Fred Weasley elicited weeping from some of the redheads and fond but painful smiles from everyone else.

Finally, the scarred man finished the names.

‘To the Order of the Phoenix,’ he said, and they all drank.

Mitch added this name.

‘To Dumbledore’s Army!’ This was added too: who was this Dumbledore?

‘To Equality!’ They all drank, and went their separate ways.

* * *

Mitch sat at his computer, pulling at his hair in frustration. He had tried all of the umpteen names on the paper napkin, but to no avail. Was it an elaborate hoax; they seemed serious and sane enough.

He was determined to get to the bottom of this.


End file.
